


i wanna taste your ecstasy

by soft_rains



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Praise Kink, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_rains/pseuds/soft_rains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where emma has needs and killian satisfies them (set in some vague post s4 setting in which s5 was definitively not a thing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the climb

Being acutely perceptive has always been one of the personality traits that has served Killian best. And while he doesn’t like to dwell on the origins of this trait, he can admit that nothing could have taught him the balance of human behavior quite like being indentured into someone else’s service did. He learned how to read people’s moods not only from their words, but their actions, their lines and angles, the way they carry themselves; this particular skill has saved his life more times than he can remember and he is never more thankful for it than when he puts it to use to help his beloved.

Because regardless of where the bulk of his attention is directed, a small portion of it always lingers with her. Even when she is not by his side, there is a part of him that feels her absence like a physical presence. And while he knows there are plenty who worry after her, he remembers his words to her quite vividly: _I hope it’s my job to protect your heart_. It’s a job he takes up with more gravity than any other in his life, and he makes it his mission to never, ever let her down.

And he doesn’t.

With the very careful application of his love, support, trust and unguarded affection, she starts to open herself to him and it is the most beautiful thing he thinks he’s ever experienced, like watching the rarest of flowers bloom for his eyes alone. It’s during this process that the night that changes everything comes about; the night that he came back to his cabin to see Emma, sprawled across his sheets, is a gift he treasures beyond all else, despite the sorrow that clings to the memories. Because before that night, he didn’t really understand; she didn’t trust him to.

It isn’t until that moment, when he gently lays her head on his thigh and starts stroking through the tangles the long day had left in her curls, that she begins to speak and he begins to get a clearer picture of Emma Swan, not the hero, but the woman. Of how the stresses of being savior and sheriff truly weigh on her, of how her breaking points present. It’s a life-altering moment when he realizes that she is trusting him not only to protect her heart, but her body and mind as well. She shakes in his lap and tells him about how it’s all just too much sometimes, about the need she’s shoved deep down, the need for someone else to take control, to give her a break from being what everyone needs her to be.

But she’s far too fragile that night for any of the physical desires she expresses, so he asks after other options. To see her so distressed and to have no recourse to aid her, it cuts him deep like the suffering was his own. And the hurt goes deeper when he sees her start to retreat, so he pushes just a little bit more than he usually would and pleasantly finds that she doesn’t have the resistance she usually does. It all comes out of in a jumble of stammered words, her faced flushed with embarrassment, and when she’s done explaining, she turns her head away from him. 

He’s not quite wrapped his head around the terminology she uses (what, exactly, a _kink_ is he’ll have to go to that internet device to research), but he can understand the core concept well enough and the way Emma shies away from him (shoulders curling into herself, the back of her neck pinked up in what he thinks is some cross between shame and embarrassment) makes him livid. He has lived centuries, traveled to countless lands, and has never met a creature closer to a goddess than the awe-inspiring woman he has trembling in his lap. An intense longing to destroy the people that have made her this way passes over him, nearly steals the breath clean out of him, but he pushes aside his anger to deal with the most pressing problem: the fact that wanting to be appreciated and cared for is something shameful to her.

It becomes his greatest resolve to change this, and he starts that night. He turns her back towards him, ignoring her trembling attempts at backtracking- “it’s stupid, _weird_ , I don’t expect-” and leaning down to kiss her gently, but soundly. He keeps kissing her, only letting her away for breath, cutting her off every time she tries to breathe self-deprecation into the air that’s thick with how much he treasures her.

Eventually, she seems to understand that he’s not going to let her take back what she just told him she needs and this is the weight that breaks the levee. She starts crying in earnest, barely noticing that he pulls her head off of his lap so that he can press her against him, let her break how she must in the circle of his arms.

For the first few minutes, he merely wipes tears from her face, tucks away the damp strands of her hair caught in the flood, but he cannot abide how she hurts, so without much to go on, he does his best to soothe her suffering and satisfy the desires she has expressed.

He begins to press kisses on every inch of her skin that’s visible to him, tastes the salt of her tears when he kisses all across her face, tastes the salt of her skin when he peppers her throat and clavicles with little pecks. Her tears begin to subside after a while, and when he’s sure that she can hear him over her sorrow, he nuzzles into her throat and begins to speak.  

He tells her what feels like every thought that’s ever crossed his mind about her. He tells her how much he admires her strength, how he’s never met someone more courageous or determined, how her capacity for compassion dragged him out of a darkness he had spent lifetimes swearing he would die in. He tells her how much she loves her son gives him back the faith in human goodness he lost as a child. He tells her that she has been his savior every moment of every day since she yanked him out of that pile of bodies. He tells her that she’s so sweet, and so perfect, so kind and so good, all interspersed with kisses that range from sweet and delicate across her neck to passionate and burning against her lips.

On and on until the sun rises through the windows in his cabin and the morning light paints her all the colors of divinity he sees in her. It isn’t until the dawn has fully broken over the horizon that she stops him. He is in the middle of trying to describe exactly how full of life her laugh makes him feel when she reaches her hand to his face, caressing her fingers across his cheek, bringing one to press softly against his lips, immediately ceasing his speech.

He thinks he may have gotten it all wrong, worried that he’s not done anything to help her, or has made things worse for her in some way. But she removes that finger soon enough, brings both of her hands up to cup his cheeks, and stretches to place the most gentle kiss he’s ever received on his forehead before closing her eyes, burrowing into his side, and promptly falling asleep.   

He watches her rest for a time, sees her look so much more at peace than she has probably since he met her, and resolves that he will do this, be this, for her whenever she needs it.

Which is where his unique skill of perceptiveness comes into play.

The signs are easy enough to spot when he starts looking for them, and come so much like clockwork that he agonizes over how he missed them before. 

It will begin with drawing her face through her hands, getting short with townspeople, circling her shoulders like she just wants to buck the weight right off them and _flee-_  

But at that point there are still many ways to make her feel better. He’ll surprise her with lunch at the station or bring a hot cocoa to the loft when he knows she’s unwinding from work. He’ll rub her feet while they watch a movie or kiss her until the tension melts from her frame.

These things work for little stresses. But Emma is the sheriff and the savior and her stresses are not often little. Too many crises in a row, too many villains at a time, and the more troubling signs of Emma’s anxiety start to manifest. 

Emma isn’t the kind of person who talks overly much, but when she starts getting genuinely distressed, she cuts herself off from communicating with people. Conversations, even with her family, become stilted and short. She puts her whole self into solving every new problem that lands in her path, and eventually she wears herself down past what reason dictates or her health can stand. She will keep going, though, brilliant woman that she is. Bleary-eyed, shoulders hunched, brows furrowed and her frown well-creased, she will keep putting one foot in front of the other until she is well past having the physical or emotional ability to continue. It's genuinely impressive, and he loves every inch of her determined soul, but it is also beyond difficult to bare witness to.  

The last week has seen such an Emma; between a new villain in Storybrooke, the pets of which seem to be (somewhat) miniature dragons and the regular sheriff duties of breaking up bar fights and chasing down small-time delinquents, she has been dragging her feet around town in a way that breaks Killian’s heart. The last straw comes when she gets into a nasty fight with Regina about how to proceed against the newest threat in Storybrooke and she storms out of the library looking like she’s about to cry if she doesn’t get away from the whole situation.

So he makes a decision.

Coordinating with David is the easy part; he sees Emma’s struggle and wants to help as well, immediately agrees to picking up the slack at the station and giving Emma the day off.

The hard part will be getting Emma to lower her hackles. He has never met someone so determined to protect others that being in their presence is genuinely humbling, but Emma does all sorts of things to him that he thought no one ever could. Unfortunately, this selflessness makes it difficult to talk her into taking care of herself, into letting someone take care of her. She can’t focus on herself unless everyone else is safe, and as much a he respects that attitude, he also knows that it’s liable to get her killed.

Treading carefully, he follows her out of library, and something in him breaks when he sees her bent over the back of a bench, shoulders hunched and shaking, looking like she’s either about to start sobbing or throwing punches. Making sure his footfalls are loud and slow, he makes his way up behind her, sweeping the hair away from the back of her neck and letting his hand rest there heavily until her shoulders drop under the pressure. 

Replacing his hand with his lips, he brings both arms around her hips, pulling gently until she falls back into his embrace, and trails kisses across all of the soft skin he can reach, from the base of neck down her throat, scraping his stubble along the way.

He’s not really trying yet, waiting for her to fight him, and she doesn’t disappoint. 

“Killian, I need to go back to the station, these dragon things-”

“Haven’t been seen all day,” he breathes into her ear, kissing just below it, “And if one is spotted, I’m sure your phone will be the first to ring." 

She makes a few noises of protests as he keeps up his random path of kisses, but when he reaches to press one under her jaw, letting his teeth scrape the curve of it when he pulls back, she makes a low whining sound and all but collapses back into him.

The fight going out of her so quickly worries him, even if it’s exactly what he needs.

He walks her quickly back to his ship, the comfort of her waist tucked into his arm not enough to drown out the memory of the look on her face when Regina accused her of not doing enough to defend the town from their new scaly infestation. Hurt, anger, and most troubling of all; a niggling doubt in the back of her eyes, a wondering that the queen might be right.

(For all that some bridges have been mended, he’s never going to call the evil queen a friend, if only because her treatment of Emma is so often lacking a return in empathy that she’s been shown by his beloved).

By the time they trudge up the gangplank, Emma is leaning most of her weight into him and sighs loudly when she has to leave his arms to make the descent down to his cabin. He climbs down right after her, but by the time he steps off the latter and turns around, she’s already perched on his bed, her head in her hands, gleaming curls falling past her face in a curtain meant to block him out of her worries. 

Such a sight used to be able deter him for a time, but he’s become so adept at scaling her walls that he scarcely even blinks at the last ditch effort she makes to hold herself together.

He hates that she believes she must suffer her burdens alone, longs so ardently to change this, but he also knows that such a belief requires a fair amount of time to grow and further resolves to do whatever he must to make it happen, starting with this moment.

Walking over to the bed, he kneels in front of her and pries her hands away from her face; sees the tears in her eyes she’s trying so hard to keep from falling and _aches_. Her lower lip trembles when he thumbs the indent in her chin, and the tears finally flow over when he sets his own chin on her knee and tells her to take what she needs from him.

“I don’t know what that is,” she cries weakly, the crack in her voice grating against his heart.

“Trust me?” he asks softly, rubbing his cheek against her denim clad thigh.

She nods, croaking out an _always_ that makes him want to shed a few tears of his own.

He presses a kiss to the top of each knee before he stands and pulls himself onto the bed, moving until his back hits the wall and taking her with him. He arranges her in his lap just the way he wants her and peels the red leather from her shoulders, tossing the jacket vaguely in the direction of his desk chair. 

Not waiting to see if it lands right, he starts trailing his lips along the skin he’s just revealed. Emma’s breath hitches when he lingers in the crease between her neck and shoulder; slow, wet kisses that seem to echo through the whole cabin.

He keeps going until she squirms a bit in his lap and brings a hand to the back of his head, trying to force his lips to hers. He doesn’t move, though, just takes her hand from his hair and holds it tightly in his, resuming his kisses along the collar line of her tank top.

“Killian-”

“Hush, my love, let me do this for you,” he begs, scraping his scruff back along the path he just kissed, “You deserve to be taken care of.”

Her whole body is trembling now, and he knows she is so close to giving in, he only has to push her a bit more.

“Say it,” he implores, removing his lips from her skin, tucking his fingers under her chin and bringing her eyes to his.

She looks confused, questioning him with her gaze.

“Tell me you deserve to be taken care of,” he repeats, the backs of his fingers stroking down her neck so slow and gentle that she shivers from head to toe.

“Killian, that’s not- just-” she struggles, embarrassment rouging her cheeks, making her look even more delectable.

“Say it, Emma,” he demands, fingers trailing past her throat to trace the swell of her breasts under her tank top, back and forth, in a motion deliberately intended to drive her to the brink. He waits for her compliance and watches the way her breathing gets more erratic with every pass of his knuckles over the plane of her chest.

“Oh god, please, Killian, just _touch_ me,” she practically moans.

“Not until you say it,” he affirms, removing his hand from under her shirt, at which point she actually whines.

But he is determined to wait her out, holding her fast so that surrender is her only option.

She knows it too, which is why, after a few moments of trying to get his touch back, she deflates entirely in his arms. Closing her eyes and turning her head away from him, she finally gives in.

“I deserve to be taken care of.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, her submission to his love just as satisfying as it has been since that day she kissed him back to life on the patio outside of Granny’s. Immediately bringing his hand and hook to the hem of her tank, he whispers hot against her ear, “Yes, sweetling, you do, and I’m going to take _such_ good care of you.”


	2. the fall

She’s burning up, the fire of his touch blazing across her skin until she is utterly lost. But he’s not going to stop, and oh, how the hell she is going to survive this is a mystery. Because as soon as she’s acquiesced to his desire (and God how embarrassing all of this has been, telling him about her need to feel loved, about needing someone else to handle her sometimes because she can’t handle herself, and how he doesn’t see her as some broken freak for needing this-) he drags her tank top slowly upwards, pausing to sweep his large hand across the width of her stomach and leaving it there, a few inches away from where she wants it, in either direction.

Instead of moving it or her shirt any further, he goes back to kissing her collarbones red and raw, drawing some sounds out of her that would be truly embarrassing if she didn’t trust him with every inch of her soul. He keeps this up until she’s writhing in his lap, desperate to get him to _move_ ; his hands, his hips, _anything_.  

She’s already so riled up that she doesn’t realize he’s bent her forward just so until he moves the dark tank top over her head and throws it across the room. She’s so ready for the real action to start, but instead he uses his hook to gently brush the hair from her face that her tank displaced, while his fingers start kneading the tension from the back of her neck, moving to her shoulders after and eventually down the line of her spine. It might be the most sensual massage she’s ever had and she thinks she finally understands what it is to be _adored_ ; she gets caught up in it, completely, letting him maneuver her how he wishes, hardly noticing anything. She only registers the removal of her bra because the cool metal of his hook gives her goosebumps when he slides the straps down her shoulder, one after the other, dropping wet kisses on the skin the action reveals, and when his teeth scrape downward at the same moment the clasp gives, she moans like a teenage girl who’s just discovered the magic of vibrators.

(And fucking _Christ_ , that train of thought alone might kill her, never mind if she ever actually introduced him to the collection of battery-operated assistants she has in a box under her bed).

She’s so overwhelmed with the contrast between his soft kisses and strong hands that she doesn’t notice he’s finished kneading out the last knot at the base of her spine until he’s moving her body, laying her out on his bed, rolling her until she meets his soft gaze.

And suddenly the fire that’s been flushing her skin feels less like a blaze and more like honey crawling through her veins, slow and sweet; warm, she just feels _warm_ when they’re together like this, and it throws her for a loop. She’s never had this in her whole life; someone who knows her well enough to understand her needs, values her enough to respect them, and loves her enough to fulfill them.

Killian is the only person she’s ever trusted this much, and the knowledge makes her heart race in a way that is both terrifying and necessary for her continued existence. She wants him to soothe her hurts, to keep her steady when she falters, she _craves_ his love in a way she never thought she would allow herself of anyone.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, caressing her cheek with his fingers, dragging them down the length of her throat, settling his hand in the valley between her breasts.

And dear God, she would never admit it to him, but her heart has fluttered and flipped itself sick every single time he has called her beautiful, practically from the moment they met. The way he says it, soft, low, and sure, like there’s no way the fact could possibly be argued; it starts the sweet ache of healing in her heart, one that blossoms slow, but strong, each day she lets herself live in his love.

That feeling, combined with the way his fingers spread out just wide enough to touch the swells of both her breasts leaves her burning to be touched, and she thinks she must have said something to that effect out loud by the way his eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t move his hand.

Instead, his lips are tracing soft and sloppy against the side of her left breast, skimming the skin with his stubble until she _keens_. Only then does he move to take a swollen nipple into his mouth, and Jesus _fuck_ his tongue-

* * *

He loves her breasts, could spend hours kissing them raw and he swears every time he gets her bra off that he will pencil in a time to do just that, to keep her here in this bed and not move his mouth from her breasts until she _begs_.

For now, the effort he puts forth has Emma panting beneath him, and he can’t deny that he loves it, loves the twist of her body when he drives her to pure feeling, and he tells her as much.

“Could live in your bosom, love,” he sighs, doing his best to leave a good sized mark on the underside of her breast, one that will purple and linger for days, before returning to wrapping his lips around one of her nipples, “Love tasting these pretty peaks of yours, how stiff they get for me. I love to pink them up, to make all that beautiful skin of yours flush for me; don’t you, my darling?”

A weak sounding whimper is her only reply, and while he understands entirely how easy it is for them to get completely tangled up by the other, he doesn’t want her to get too lost in it yet. He wants her to stay with him as long as possible, needs her to receive the love he freely gives, the care she craves.  

The noise she makes is practically inhuman when he releases her breast with a last scrape of his teeth and stubble, a high-pitched warble that makes him so hard in his trousers it hurts.

“I believe I asked you a question, love.”

He can see the struggle in her, knows how hard it is for her to give in to purity of what she _wants_ , but he waits her out, keeps her pinned to the mattress, and it’s worth it when she looks up at him through her lashes, chest heaving, to pant quietly into the still night, “I love what you do to me.”

The sincerity in her eyes nearly snaps his resolve to take this slow, but tonight is about what Emma deserves. And what she deserves is to be loved until she can’t stand it anymore.

“There’s a good girl,” he soothes, combating her impatience by popping the button on her jeans and dragging the zipper down.

His desires rarely stray from trying to help Emma build herself up stronger and better, wherever and whenever he can, but he knows that tonight, before such work can be done, he must wreck her first.

He means to do it right.

* * *

He’s been teasing her since he brought her back to the Jolly, but now there is no hesitation in his movements. The second he’s loosened her jeans enough, he shoves his hand under her panties and starts swiping two fingers through the slickness clinging to her from the way he went at her breasts earlier, a satisfied sound rumbling from his lips where he presses them against her cheek.

“Oh love, you’re so beautiful like this,” he breathes in her ear, moving his thumb to swipe gentle circles around her clit in a way that makes stars pop behind her eyes, “So wet, trembling under my touch, I’ve never seen anything more perfect in all my days.”

She can’t, she genuinely can’t deal with him, how he loves her, makes her feel respected, adored, _treasured_. The two fingers stop rubbing and she thinks she might scream, but before she can make a sound, they sink into her in a wet, easy slide, the sound of which is positively sinful and echoes through the cabin.

He keeps it slow and steady, pumping his fingers in and out of her in a slick rhythm that makes her toes curl every time he sinks back in. And God, this is exactly what she needs; his fingers drive her out of her mind more days than they don’t, long and thick, perfect for filling her up and bringing her to the peak of pleasure, making her feel so good she can’t see straight.

It’s exactly what he does now, sliding in and out of her so easily she’s almost embarrassed, something he seems to catch because he pauses the next time his fingers push in, rubbing and stroking at her inner walls with a tenderness that would steal her breath if she had any left. Which she doesn’t, because it is at that point that he swoops down and captures her mouth in a truly filthy kiss that threatens to scorch her bones to ash. He goes deep with it, drawing her in again and again, until her lips are slick with spit and she has trouble remembering where she even is.

“Do you have any idea what this does to me, love?” he inquires when he finally lets her breathe, punctuating the question with a sharp nip at her bottom lip and an extra fraction of speed in the pace with which he caresses her inner flesh, “To feel you this wet for me? To know that you want me, of all people, to be the one to do this for you? That your body craves me like mine does you?”

The words go straight to her clit, the need there pulsing in tempo with her heartbeat, so heavy in her ears, and when he drags his fingers all the way out, only to bring them swiftly back with a third digit, filling her so good, everything just seems to turn syrupy-slow. The sensations sweeping through her are entirely too much and she closes her eyes, lets time pass her in the rhythm of his thrusting fingers, her only tether to reality the faint sound of crashing waves she hears somewhere in the distance.

She drifts on a sea of indescribable pleasure, carried by the reverence of his touch, and only comes slowly back to herself when she realizes he is speaking softly in her ear.

“There you are, my sweet swan,” he coos, low and rough, into her ear, thin of breath himself, “Ride my fingers, just like that.” The wonder in his voice drives her to the brink of madness, makes her desperate to keep a hold on the pride swelling in her chest. “The loveliest lass in all the realms you are, always so good for me. Keep going, my love.”

And God help her, but she honestly hadn’t noticed herself getting impatient with his rhythm, didn’t realize she had starting canting her hips against his hand, faster, harder, riding his fingers where he now keeps them still against her. And his words only add to the blaze licking through her, making her feel so treasured, making her want to be more, be perfect, just for him.

Pressing a kiss that is almost too sweet for their current activities against the corner of her mouth, he begins to draw his lips down her body, bringing his hook in tandem. When he pauses at her breast to draw a sensitive nipple gently between his teeth, his hook makes small movements against the other, rubbing back and forth over the hard bud until the metal is no longer cool to the touch and she is half feral with desire.

Eventually he moves on, trailing lips and metal down her abdomen, planting soft kisses across the skin of her hips, dipping just a little lower in the center and dropping a quick peck against the skin below her belly button, before pulling it softly between his teeth and adding just the right amount of suction to make her want to _beg_ him to go lower, kiss harder, do _anything_ to her, as long as he keeps building the high she’s racing towards. The desire coursing through her is brutal and demanding and she thought she was its master, but she was so _so_ wrong; every morsel of it belongs to him, only he can satisfy her the way she needs. It’s such an unbearably sweet revelation that she has to turn her head into the sheets just to breathe, just to keep existing under the onslaught of his tender attentions, muffling her desperate gasping (whether it’s for air or just _him_ she can’t even begin to know).

* * *

He always manages to lose himself in her, every day that he’s known her, in some way or another, but the pull is never more all-consuming than when he has her on his ship, in his sheets, under his hands. The wet heat of her around his fingers always makes something in him crack, but any dam that existed between his passion and her is completely broken when she starts fucking herself back onto his fingers, all exquisite noises and shaking skin. He nearly loses himself entirely, wants to make her come around his fingers until she begs him for respite, wants to fill her up with his cock until she _screams_. But he brings these desires under some fashion of control when he looks up from branding her stomach with his lips to see her retreating, turning her head into the pillow and away from his affections.

And that’s just not something he’s willing to abide by.

He needs her to stay with him, to let go of whatever reservations she has left and leave her insecurities behind. There isn’t a single part of her that he doesn’t treasure beyond all reason. He needs her to understand that, needs her to know exactly how perfect she is, how beloved she is to him, how much he fucking _revels_ in the trust she’s shown him.

“You make the most perfect noises, my love, please let me hear? You have to know I cherish them; every sweet sound you make, all for me, want to keep them with me always,” he rambles, lips and teeth working at her trembling stomach.

This doesn’t garner much of a response, just a long, low whine, which turns into a high-pitched keen when he slowly takes his fingers from her.

“Why did you stop?” she cries out, breathless and choked.

“Because I need you to stay with me, love,” he explains as he uses his newly free hand and hook to nearly rip her jeans and underwear off her in one impatient motion of lust, “I want to hear what I do to you, I want to see those beautiful eyes glazed with pleasure when I make you come, want to be able to taste the rapture on those pretty pink lips when I’m done with you,”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Oh, believe me darling, I plan to. But not before I make you come, just like this,” he whispers in between the kisses he lays across the creamy skin of her inner thighs, “And I can’t do that unless you let me.”

She puts a hand over her eyes for a brief moment before nodding and mumbling something he doesn’t quite catch- the words _fucking_ and _please_ all that come through in translation.

He never could deny her.

Which is why his hand is back between her thighs, three fingers in to the second knuckle, before she’s even finished nodding her consent. The pace he sets is faster now, the sight of her biting her lips swollen the way _he_ wants to completely finishing off what’s left of his resolve. He can’t stop kissing the smooth skin beneath his lips; the feel of her thighs quivering against his mouth is probably the closest thing to heaven on earth that exists. But he knows he can do one better for her.

Because Emma is a force of nature when she’s being fucked, but when he mouths at her clit, her legs shaking where they’re pressed against his ears, she goes soft, utterly vulnerable in a way she never is outside of whatever set of sheets they find themselves in. When he gets to kissing at her sweet center, her reactions are always gold, purer than any he’s pilfered in his life.

This time, when his tongue finds that swollen bundle of nerves and traces around it, she _squeals_ ; when he wraps his lips around it, sucking gently against her, she lets out a moan that nearly finishes him before he’s even unzipped his pants; loud, without care, steeped in pleasure, it’s exactly the kind of noise he lives to garner from her.

She doesn’t let up either, all the inhibition has gone out of her as she clutches at the sheets on either side of her, panting and pleading as he works her over with his mouth and fingers, fucking fast and hard until she chokes on a sound he thinks is meant to be his name.

He knows looking up is a mistake, will drive him past all sense, but he does it anyway. He meets her fierce green gaze with his and he has to muffle a moan against her clit because the way she looks at him is everything; like she’s been marooned on an island for years and he is the first ship she sees on the horizon. Between the trusting affection in her gaze and the tenderness with which she uncurls a hand from the sheets and tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear, he knows he needs to end this, now, before he finishes in his drawers like an inexperienced youth.

He starts finger fucking her in earnest; shorter strokes, retreating less and going deeper with each slide into her sweet quim, and when he sucks on her clit to this new rhythm, he finally gets the surrender he craves in the form of Emma’s desperate gasping:

“Please, please let me come,” and she looks positively wild, grinding helplessly against his face and his hand, finally taking what she wants from him, “Need it, need it just like this. Please, _please_.”

Pulling his lips back just enough to press a chaste kiss on the swell of her left hip, he murmurs  thickly, “Anything for you, darling, you know that.”

He kisses quickly back to her center, mouthing at her clit and stroking his fingers faster and harder until she breaks above him with a long, loud wail. The hand that had worked itself into his hair now yanks hard as her thighs convulse around his head, and he works her through her pleasure until her hand drops uselessly to the bed below.

It makes a truly filthy sound when he slides his fingers from her tight, wet heat, and her whole body twitches when he does it.

That sight alone makes him want to bury his cock in her until she forgets any name but his, never mind seeing her greedily gulping down air, eyes blown wide with satisfaction, lips bruised and skin flush with life. The whole panorama sears itself into his memory as the most spectacular phenomenon he’s ever witnessed.  

This night is about her, though; his own desires are not those he wishes to sate tonight. So while it physically pains him, the only articles of clothing he removes are his jacket and waistcoat before dropping himself beside her and pulling her against him, her bare back to his clothed chest.

“What’re you doing?” Emma asks, slow and stilted, like she’s still struggling to leave the clouds and plant her feet back on solid ground.

“Hush, darling, I still have many plans for us tonight,” he assures her, mouth catching a bead of sweat rolling from her hairline down her neck, “But you’ve had a long day and you should rest a bit before the real fun begins.”

“But you-”  
  
“I’m fine, sweetling,” he dismisses lightly, weaving his now-dry hand through the golden mess of hair spilling across his chest, tangling each finger in a lock of curls, “It has been a long day for you, my love, and we have all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 3 coming soon-ish

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know what happened. started writing drunk, finished sober, and then was too hungover to edit. so uh, have fun with this i guess. i'm gonna release it in chapters, which is like a total first for me length wise, so imma count this as a success despite the rest. actual smut is part 2, which lol @ myself because i don't actually write smut.


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